


The Lion's Outside of the Door (The Wolf's in the Bed)

by SBG



Category: Emergency!
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SBG/pseuds/SBG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been months since the paramedics of Station 51 suffered a brutal attack on the job. Things are finally getting back to normal, or so it would seem. Reading The Cat Came Back would help, but it's not necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hank Stanley

Because firefighters' lives were frequently at the mercy of flames and countless other disasters, downtime at a station had a solid foundation built on routine. Roll call, duty assignments, meal preparation, those little things – they were all as important as drills and keeping up with the latest procedures. No one knew that better than Hank Stanley, but knowing that didn't mean he had to _enjoy_ the paperwork which came along with being a captain. Some days, if he were going to be honest, it was one routine task he wished he could accomplish by opening a drawer, sweeping every paper on his desk into it and then locking it and accidentally losing the key.

Today qualified as one of those days.

The first shift with all five of his men whole and well was and had been great, but it was the second shift that always solidified it for him. Made it real. As silly and sentimental as it made him, Hank only ever relaxed mid-way through the second shift together after one of his men (or he) had been out with an injury. And right now, he'd rather be out in the stationhouse doing nothing with them than stuck in the office doing requisition forms. He'd love to be listening to those twits banter back and forth about nonsense.

It had been three and a half months since their routine station lives had actually been routine, with Roy out for two weeks and John for a whole lot more than that, since that awful night which had very nearly cost John Gage his life. If Hank closed his eyes even now, he could see it like he was stepping into that chaos and carnage all over again.

 _"Wonder what's got Roy spooked?" Chet Kelly said, shouting his question over the siren._

 _Hank wasn't sure who he was asking, or what answer any of them could give. They'd all heard the call for back up, and while Roy had sounded urgent, Hank didn't know if he'd go so far as to say spooked. Roy DeSoto didn't get spooked; it wasn't in his nature. The only times the paramedic ever let anything show, in front of Hank anyway, it was under extreme circumstances, usually involving his partner. And even in those extreme circumstances, the only time Hank had ever witnessed anything close to flustered was Roy faltering in administering CPR on an already-dead guy when one very ill John Gage moaned and slipped into unconsciousness so fast they all thought he'd bought it right there in front of them._

 _Roy hadn't sounded like he was upset in that way to Hank's ears, but it was true that there was enough distance between a captain and his men that he might not pick up on nuances. Kelly might be right. Hank hoped not. The very thought was unsettling._

" _Well, we're about to find out," Hank said, too softly for Chet to hear. He saw Mike Stoker nod slightly. "It's probably nothing."_

 _Hank heard Marco Lopez's muffled voice, but couldn't make out the words. No doubt, Marco was telling Chet the same thing as he himself had just uttered. He'd be lying if he wasn't a little nervous about what kind of back up Roy and John needed. Part of that could be sloughed off as being keyed up from the house fire they'd just finished; it felt strange to work with another rescue team, even though every squad in LA County was handled by capable men. And part of it was plain old captain's worry. He didn't like when resources were too strapped for his men to be accompanied on unknown rescues. Better to have all of them there, in case, and if it turned out to be some fool caught up in his own Halloween decorations, then it was no harm, no foul. He pointed Mike to the right, putting a hand on the door to hold on as the engine turned smoothly onto Palm Court. There was no fire, no crowd gathered, only the squad parked in front of 1733, a single story house with its door wide open._

 _There was also the police vehicle pulling up only moments after the engine did. That ratcheted up Hank's concern and blood pressure ever so slightly. It was standard operating procedure, but Hank had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. With a glance up at the nearly full moon, he followed the officers up the sidewalk. Their steps quickened when they heard a loud wail emanating from the house. He stayed back from the entryway, waving his crew off until the officers cleared the door. One of them shouted for a hand, and he went. They all did. The first and only thing he saw was Roy DeSoto, sprawled on the floor, his legs crossing perpendicular over another pair, a woman's. There was blood and bruises and one of the officers wrestled with someone whose screams threatened to deafen Hank._

 _Instinctively, Hank ran to his paramedic, crouched and did a visual check. Roy was moving, sluggish, trying to get up. Hank grasped him by the shoulders._

" _Holy hell, what happened here? Roy?"_

 _Then the officer finally overpowered the person he was struggling with, moving both of them toward the door. When Hank saw what they'd been blocking, he nearly lost the composure required of a man in his position. He wanted to cave in, just this once, and not be the captain. He blinked, hoping that it was a figment of his imagination, but that hope was dashed when he opened them again and saw John Gage lying there, face bloodless, with a … chair leg staked into his chest._

" _Oh jeez," Hank said, incapable of articulating what was really rolling through him. All he knew, all he could think was John is dead, John is dead, "John."_

Hank pinched the bridge of his nose, pulled himself back to the here and now. He didn't know why he had to go and relive that now. John hadn't died and wasn't going to if Hank had anything to say about it. It felt like a jinx, as if merely thinking about bad times would make good times go rancid. Any reasonable person knew life didn't work that way, yet he vowed to not think about it anymore. Better to think of John as he was now again, healthy, with his arms flailing in excitement or mouth running a mile a minute on his latest scheme. There was always a scheme, and there was always something to be excited about; it was what made John such a unique and often aggravating guy.

Hank tossed the pen down, stood and stretched. His back popped, a reminder of both his age and of how long he'd sat there doing the blasted paperwork. He decided it was time to do a walk through, to make sure everyone was doing all right, maybe get a cup of coffee while he was at it. Pouring a fresh cup of brew was almost a guarantee either the engine or the squad or both would be called out. Right now, a milk run would be preferential to paperwork. He'd never actively wish for a bad scene, of course. His job was, for all intents and purposes, going the best when he had nothing to do.

The bay was empty, the engine out on the driveway. Hank could see the floor was still wet from Mike swabbing it down while the squad was out on a call. The concrete would never sparkle, but somehow Mike always seemed to get it cleaner than the rest of the guys. It was like everything Mike did and why he was so important, that kind of quiet excellence he possessed that most people never noticed. The rest of his crew did great jobs, too, of course. Well, except Gage, when it came to duty assignments anyway. John was particularly terrible at mopping. Hank smiled. He heard soft voices coming from the kitchen. He wandered that way. It was where the coffee was, after all.

"I just think it's too soon," Marco's voice floated from the room. "You really ought to reconsider this, Chet."

"You worry too much, pal," Chet said. "You'll see. This is just what the place needs. We need to get back to normal around here."

Normal, Hank thought, was completely relative. To be honest, the Chet Kelly variation of normal scared him a little bit. Sanity or not aside, he had a decent idea what was going on before he rounded the corner and saw for himself as Chet shut a cupboard door and backed away with his hands up. Usually, the phantom did his work when no one above his pay grade was looking. The guy was actually ingenious with the implementation of his simple pranks and had impeccable timing. He'd never utter those words aloud, or suffer from Kelly's instantly swelled ego. No one noticed his appearance at the door.

"Marco's right, Kelly," Mike Stoker said. "Remember what happened last time you pranked too soon."

"Yeah, Johnny just about took your head off."

"I'll admit that wasn't the best timing." Chet shrugged, then looked smug. "But Gage couldn't take me if I had one hand tied behind my back."

Two snorts sounded simultaneously.

"Hey!" Chet said, sounding insulted.

Truthfully, Hank wasn't sure if it was too soon for the pranks to start up or not. There hadn't been enough real time during the first shift to gauge how Gage and DeSoto or any of them were adjusting to things being normal again. He eyed Mike on the sofa, newspaper crumpled on his lap, frowning slightly at the back of Chet's head. Two against. He shoved his own uncertainty aside and went with his men.

"You're getting sloppy, Kelly," Hank said, pleased when both Kelly and Lopez lurched at the sound of his voice. "I've told you before I don't ever want to see what you're doing, before it's done."

"Aw, Cap," Chet said, unwittingly managing a spot-on impression of Gage. "Don'tcha think it'd lift the mood around here?"

"Sure. But I also think Marco's got the right idea."

"I don't know how these people keep putting their hands down drains. You'd think common sense would kick in," John said, obviously talking to Roy. He whizzed right past Hank. "'Scuse me. Marco's got the right idea about what, Cap?"

Damn, how had he missed the squad pulling in? Roy was only steps behind his partner and both of them made a line for the coffeepot. Hank watched helplessly as Roy snatched the lone mug tipped upside down in the dish drainer with a quick smile at John's scowl.

"Well, at least make sure you save me some, Roy."

"Johnny," Mike said, warning in his voice. "Don…"

And to Chet's credit, Hank did see him move to prevent John from opening that cupboard door. It would have taken super speed to stop it from happening, though, and with a boing and a metallic scrape, the coffee can on a catapult launched and doused John but good. He startled, a bit more than usual, probably because he was out of practice. He emitted a surprised yelp and his elbows flew out, nearly clipping Roy on the chin. All of those reactions, Hank expected. But what had him perturbed was DeSoto, who lost every scrap of color in his face, winced and looked about ready to bolt, pass out or … something else Hank wasn't comfortable naming. A fraction of a second and a blink later, Roy was back to normal and glaring at Chet. Hank wondered if his eyes had played a trick on him. No one else seemed to have noticed.

"Gah, _Kelly_ ," John said without an ounce of true malice. He sounded, in fact, like he was trying not to smile. He shook his head, sprinkling water on Roy and Chet while he was at it. "When are you going to outgrow this stuff?"

"When you stop falling for it, Johnny-baby," Chet said with a sly grin.

"The only way I can do that is if I stop opening doors of any kind. That's just not practical for basic daily life."

"Oh." Chet strutted out of the kitchen like a peacock, calling back, "I know."

"He's got you there, Johnny," Roy said.

Roy sounded almost like himself, and almost like someone rattled to his very core. Hank narrowed his eyes and stared at his senior paramedic, conducting a mute visual assessment. Roy looked almost enough like himself to pass muster. Hank thought he must be simply too hypersensitive from earlier, mentally replaying that terrible night. He had to lay off it before he drove himself nuts. He knew he had a tendency toward paranoia. The last thing his crew needed was for him to go on a neurotic jag, not right now.

"Yeah, I know," John said.

With a doleful expression, John brushed a clump of wet, rapidly-approaching-non-regulation-length hair out of his eyes and reached for a cup, pausing briefly when Roy handed him his full cup and took the empty. He bobbed his head in appreciation, took a sip and grinned at Mike, who smiled back. Mike made the best coffee and he knew it.

"I just don't know how it's always me that's opening the doors. Kelly's some kind of … of … evil mastermind." John gulped and looked at the rest of the guys. "But I don't want any of you to ever tell him I said that, the mastermind bit. You hear me?"

"Is that an order, Gage?" Hank asked, casual-like. He smiled at how close John had come to mirroring his own thoughts on Chet's skillful Phantom pranks.

"Uh, no, no, Cap. I'd sure appreciate it, though," John said, and had the decency to look embarrassed. "You know how Chet gets."

"That I do, pal."

Hank clapped John on the shoulder and winked. He relaxed into the normalcy of the whole situation, glad that what could have been a disaster on Chet's part turned out okay. Still, he had been serious about not wanting to ever see a prank being set up. Personally, he wanted plausible deniability. Professionally, he was supposed to be a role model. A captain needed to know all but not see all when it came to that kind of thing. He studied Roy and John for a moment, happy to see them carrying on as usual, then went in search of Chet for a small chat. He'd wait for Mike to make a fresh pot of coffee and come back for that. He didn't make it two steps out of the kitchen when the klaxons went off, summoning engine and squad both. Well, he'd wanted routine.


	2. Hank Stanley

The fire was undoubtedly hotter than most blazes. Nothing got that large so fast without extraordinary heat and probably some kind of accelerant. He frowned, not much liking that thought. Made things tricky. He twisted in his seat to see as they approached. Smoke plumed out of the top floor windows, and flames burned bright. It gave him a thrill in the pit of his stomach to look at it.

Most people didn't get it, and never would, that a firefighter both hated and loved fire. Respected and disrespected it. There were all sorts of gray shades in his line of work, the only thing solidly black and white was the desire to extinguish the flames, save people and buildings from a fire's terrible, powerful beauty. And even when that was done, there was some sort of strange sadness accompanying the fire's defeat. It was painful to see such a powerful thing die. Chet Kelly didn't generally expend too much energy thinking about the darker and deeper sides of his profession. He knew, though, that the darkness was why the Phantom existed. All of his shift mates knew what he did about fire and what it could do. Laughter was important. They all knew that too.

When they got close enough to the burning building, that mixed sensation of anticipation and dread ratcheted up as it always did. He gave Marco a sidelong glance, not surprised to see awe and determination on his friend's face. Chet saw 36 was already there on the north side, men running around, and 10 was pulling up behind them. He guessed 51 would be put on the west, based only on what he could see. Sure enough, Stoker steered the engine around the corner, idled in front of a hydrant. Chet and Marco jumped off, readied the line and trotted alongside until the engine stopped about twenty yards down the street. There wasn't any doubt they were going in. He saw Gage and DeSoto with their tanks already on and heading for Cap, who was on the HT.

"Okay," Cap said, "what we have here are unoccupied offices on the top three floors, warehouse storage beneath. We've got reports that this is a favorite spot for vagrants, so we could very well have people in there. Welles and Hornyak from 36 are already on two. DeSoto, Gage, I want you to sweep the third floor. 10's paramedics are on standby for triage, you guys might have to join them later."

Chet would rather see DeSoto and Gage on triage right away, being the best in the business. That, and he wasn't sure his pigeon was up to usual standards, not that he'd ever admit to Gage he thought the guy had standards that came anywhere close to excellent. Chet also knew their paramedics were some of the best rescue men out there as well, and they couldn't be two places at once. There'd be no one to triage if no one went in to get them out.

"Exits?"

"36 noted there are stairwells that lead out on the north corner of this side and the same on the east. Center for the north facing exterior wall."

"Got it, Cap," Gage said, a glint in his eye. He slapped the back of his hand against DeSoto's bicep.

"Roof access?" DeSoto asked, less enthusiasm on his face. DeSoto was always more of a determined guy than an awed guy when it came to the job. Or anything. "Four looks fully involved."

"Yes, it does. Anyone up there is already beyond our help, God only knows. Stairs that lead out on ground level and roof are on east and here on west. Keep in mind that the stairs up and out might already be compromised." Cap scowled at the fire and called to Gage and DeSoto, already only steps from the door. "Do this fast, guys, and watch your heads. Radio check in three minutes."

Gage raised his right arm in acknowledgement, never losing a step. DeSoto trailed behind him.

"This one's looking real unstable. I think we'll be looking at containment-only in a matter of minutes," Cap said, mostly to himself.

Chet thought Cap was understating things, probably to keep his and their emotions in check, and was impressed as always in how quickly the captain took in the information and distilled it into a plan of action. It was part of a captain's job he would never be able to handle himself, which was why he didn't have much desire to ever make that rank. If he could make engineer one day, great. If not, fires would always be there to battle and he could stay on the line, right in the thick of it. It didn't pay for crap and didn't require an advanced degree, but he'd defy anyone to tell him the little guys on the front line were any less important than the big guys with white stripes on their helmets.

"We're gonna have to fight most of this one from the outside." Cap looked after Gage and DeSoto. For a second, he appeared uncertain. Concerned, even. "Kelly, Lopez, I want you on a line inside with DeSoto and Gage while they conduct the search. Hustle it, they got a head start on you."

Cap turned then, to confer with Stoker while Chet and Marco quickly took off toward the fire. Chet didn't like how many windows on three were already orange with flame. Even the brief lead Gage and DeSoto had on them could be a problem, except he saw them pause at the door and wait. Good, good. He and Marco caught up, uncharged line trailing behind them. Heat rolled out of the building in waves, and smoke tinged with chemicals – could be from insulation, paint fumes, or any number of things. He was always the slowest to get his gear in order, but he did his best to hurry. The longer they stood outside, the more dangerous a fast sweep would be. It meant Marco was lead on the hose, as by the time he had himself all hooked up his three mates had breached the door. A glance toward the engine revealed the Battalion Chief's car arriving.

He returned his attention to his small part of the big job and entered the building. Gage, DeSoto and Lopez were all staring up. Chet immediately saw why. The stairwell was tight, walls on both sides instead of open in the middle. They were going to have to make sure the line didn't get a kink in it once it was charged, or it would be useless.

"You two cover the stairs and exit. We'll go make a quick sweep," DeSoto said. The building groaned in a way they all recognized as weakened infrastructure about to give it up completely. "A really quick sweep."

Gage had started bolting up the stairs, taking them by two, before DeSoto finished speaking. DeSoto, in turn, let out an annoyed squawk before following. Chet knew this new plan wasn't what Cap had intended by sending him and Marco in, but Chet also knew DeSoto was right. There wasn't a better option. Hauling the hose up and back down a tricky set of stairs would take time, and he had a feeling that as quick as DeSoto and Gage's search was going to be, their exit was going to have to be faster. Up and out wasn't a safe option, so he'd make sure down and out was.

Marco jogged up the stairs to the first landing, pointed the hose and nodded for Chet to join him. He did, and let Stoker know they were ready for the line to be charged. The actual task wasn't tough, but waiting proved to be. More than usual, Chet had to admit. It wasn't that he didn't think Gage and DeSoto weren't great at their jobs, just residual nervousness about being separated. He was going to have to get used to it. Some days, the paramedics went on run after run without so much as a boring dumpster fire for the engine crew. He would never let anyone know how he felt – it came too close to concern, and everyone knew that wasn't Chet Kelly.

Except when it was.

It didn't seem like they'd been at it for more than a minute or so, but his HT crackled to life as Gage's muffled voice reported to Cap. Three minutes then.

"HT one to Engine 51. Cap, we're going to need more time."

"Negative," Cap said, no hesitation. "I want you guys out."

"We can't exit on the east side, door's now blocked," Gage shouted. He sounded louder, like he had removed his mask. He coughed. "Cap, it's real bad in here. We nee – "

There was a loud crash, an indistinct shout and then a burst of static. Chet also heard Cap giving orders, but he didn't or couldn't focus on the words too closely. He knew where they needed to be. He and Marco ran up the stairs, struggling with the hose. As they rounded the corner for two, the door flew open, Welles and Hornyak spilling out. Between them, they held a ragged older man who coughed behind Hornyak's mask.

"It's gonna give," Hornyak said. "If you go in, you're probably not coming out."

"We should have already been in." Chet fought the urge to shove his fellow firefighters aside. They didn't have time for this.

"Go, stairwell's sound," Marco said, backing Chet up. "We're not leaving our people behind."

Welles and Hornyak nodded, and then hustled their victim down.

Marco's words confirmed for Chet that whatever Cap had said over the HT, it wasn't a full evacuation. Or, maybe Marco was employing selective hearing like he was. They were on the same page, either way. He and Marco were always on the same page, at a fire. He hadn't had the chance yet to discuss his good pal's earlier mutiny over pranking Gage. First, they had to get out alive.

The stairs were the safest place in the building, walled off from the burning interior yet. That safety wasn't going to last and even as he and Marco continued to the third floor, Chet had to wonder if they might be more than a little nuts. Somewhere in his gut, in that place no one could ever explain fully, he knew no matter how crazy it was to rush toward danger, it was the right thing for reasons that had nothing to do with fighting a fire. Gut instinct was a skill honed on every fire, a tool every bit as necessary as a hose and an ax.

He watched Marco kick the door open wider, saw the flames eating through the walls and doors of the smoky office corridor. What he didn't see were Gage and DeSoto. If the east exit was blocked, this side was no less so. It was only smoke, a thick blanket it of it from either side of the corridor. They moved forward about ten feet, slowly hosing down the burning walls, ever mindful of the flames.

"Gage, DeSoto," Chet shouted.

He might have gotten a response. He didn't know, because a half a second later two things happened. Their HT squelched to life and Cap shouted, and before Chet's brain could decipher what the words were that went with the urgent tone, there came an enormous boom and the building shook and rattled. Both he and Marco were knocked off their feet, somehow managed to retain their hold on the hose, while hell broke loose around them. Bits of ceiling and wall tumbled onto them, bounced off their helmets. A large one got him mid-thigh. He knew only one thing for certain and that was if they were carrying Gage and Desoto out in bags, he was going with 'em the same way. Chet Kelly had no intention of dying today.

The hose sprayed wild for a second, hitting the ceiling and raining water down. He and Marco scrambled to their feet, readying to push forward when out from the smoke and steam and water stumbled three soot-covered figures. The non-department figure draped over DeSoto's shoulders, Gage hunched behind, arm extended. One of the figures was coughing like he was trying to eject his lungs onto the floor, and it wasn't the unconscious guy. Gage. Chet knew the cough, too well. Somehow or another, his and Marco's stumble had actually created a small break. The second Gage and DeSoto crossed a certain spot miraculously free of smoky fire, a wall of flame whooshed to life behind them. It was eerie. The way the paramedics were staggering, not quite in sync, Chet doubted they had the first idea how close they'd just come.

Everywhere was chaos. A chorus of shouts from outside and on the HTs, a caustic smell of chemicals penetrating his mask, the nearly instant tight feeling in his chest, Gage coughing so hard he gagged. And they were running, all of them on shaky legs, he and Marco shuffling sideways to keep the hose covering their retreat. They broke for the exit with a prayer tossed heavenward that the stairs hadn't been compromised. When they got there, he and Marco both maneuvered themselves near Gage. Chet managed to grab John's arm, disturbed by how it shook. Could a guy who'd had one of his lungs punctured a few months ago take caustic air like this? Jesus. He couldn't believe DeSoto would let Gage take his mask off.

Down and out. They had to get down and they had to get out. Chet had to focus on the big things, and right now that was the biggest.

"Engine 51 to HT one and two. Do you copy? We have confirmed barrels of isobutyl acetate in the warehouse. You need to get out."

Kind of busy trying to not get dead, here, Cap, Chet thought. He wanted to get his own mask on Gage, but knew the energy was better spent on evacuation. Bigger things. Gage would be okay.

"Do you copy?" Cap asked again, an edge of uncaptainlike fear pitching his voice up.

Thankfully, the outside door appeared in front of them. Magic. Chet didn't recall taking the steps, but he must have and who the hell cared if he could remember the details at a time like this? He dropped the hose, would worry about pulling it free from the death trap of a building once they'd all taken a lungful of fresh, LA air which on any other day would be smoggy and not fresh at all.

There were men running this way and that, and Chet saw Cap bearing down, arms waving them over. Gage slipped free from Chet's hold and he and DeSoto headed for triage. He watched them, worry festering despite his need to return his attention to the captain and to containing the fire. Gage was already moving better, but from the distance that now separated them, Chet could still see the guy was coughing. Their victim hadn't moved at all. Chet hoped he was all right. It was never pretty, nearly getting killed for someone who had already been killed himself.

He started to turn. Out of the corner of his eye he saw DeSoto reach for Gage to check him out, and Gage pull away with a cross expression and a shout Chet was sure would have been angry had he been able to hear it. DeSoto, in turn, ran a shaky hand down his face. Chet would wonder what that was all about later, and also why between the two of them, the one who had eaten a lot of chemical-laced smoke looked more ready to do his job than the one who hadn't.


	3. Joanne DeSoto

Joanne DeSoto loved being a mother and wife. She hated that so many didn't realize how important her job was, but she couldn't spare time on educating the masses. People would understand, one day, that motherhood was one of the most important roles in the world. She not only got to participate in this unpaid, rewarding profession, but she was darned good at it. Most days, anyway. There were times she'd just as soon send the kids out to play far, far away and maybe hoped they'd get lost enough on the way home to give her a few hours off. Those moments were simple, fleeting fantasies, not anything she truly wanted. She'd never want her kids in danger. She loved Chris and Jenny. She loved Roy. She loved her life.

But at the sound of Jennifer's wail, the fifth one that day, Joanne could only look to the ceiling, offer up a half-joking "why me?" and count to ten. She knew it was that Chris was just being a boy and that he was the older child, but sometimes the torment he inflicted on Jenny was more than she could bear herself. It was definitely too much for her little girl, especially since Jenny worshipped the ground Chris walked on. When Jenny got older, she'd understand that her reaction was the only reason Chris picked on her and if she wouldn't give that to him, he'd leave her alone. Until then, Joanne had to act as a buffer. She was composed and ready to dry more tears when Jenny ran into the room and wrapped herself around Jo's thighs.

"Sweetie, what happened?" Joanne asked, as if she didn't already know.

But Jenny's crying made her words impossible to decipher. Joanne recognized immediately that the little girl was too inconsolable for this to be any minor offense committed by an aggravating older sibling. She started to panic a bit. Perhaps she was wrong to assume what had Jenny upset was her pesky brother. Perhaps there was something wrong, really wrong, with her baby. She pulled her daughter gently off, positioning her far enough away to get a good look at her. She stooped. A visual check revealed no injuries, but Joanne wasn't satisfied. She ran her hand over Jenny's arms and legs and ruffled her hair. No new bumps, bruises or scrapes. Jenny's tears hadn't slowed down at all, and so it was clear Joanne wasn't going to get any answers from her.

"Christopher DeSoto." Joanne stood as she called. She was at her wit's end with Chris today. She swore she had permanent tearstains on her dress. "Get your little butt in here right now."

She'd used The Voice, and was pleased when Chris did not dawdle. Her mother had told her The Voice made the slowest child quick and she was absolutely correct. Of course, at the time, she'd told her mother she'd never have to use it on her angelic children. Hah. Foolish inexperience. Joanne frowned upon seeing her son enter the kitchen, though. He looked confused, not guilty as he has the previous four times she'd had to scold him today. Some people lived for the weekends, but not her. It meant more time with the kids together, more squabbles and more headaches. Not that she'd trade any of it for the world. For a candlelit bubble bath and twenty minutes of peace, maybe. She sighed. It would help if she could stop thinking about how much she needed a break.

"Haven't I asked you several times today to not pick on your sister?"

"Yes, ma'am," Chris said, still puzzled and now wary. "I didn't do nothing to her."

"Anything. You didn't do anything." Joanne kept a hand on Jenny's shaking shoulder. "Can you tell me why she's crying, if you didn't do anything to her?"

"I don't know, Mom, really." Chris chewed on his lip, eyeing the back of Jenny's head with anxiety in his eyes. "I was in my room playing with my Matchbox cars and track."

Joanne's frown deepened. She crouched, pulled Jenny into a hug. The poor little thing didn't sound like she was ever going to stop with the waterworks. Instinct told Joanne that Chris wasn't lying, however. Her kids were sometimes nuisances like any others, but lying wasn't among their faults. She smiled at Chris to let him know he wasn't in trouble; he didn't leave, instead started to get a worry line on his forehead the exact same way his father did.

"Jenny, honey, what happened?" Joanne repeated the question, hoping for a better result this time. "I can't make it better if you don't tell me what's wrong."

"Mommy, he was m-mean. He was so mean and s-scary." Jenny was still barely intelligible, her words thick with tears.

"Chris."

"Mom, I didn't do _anything_ ," Chris said again. He held his hands up. "It wasn't me."

That left two other male candidates, and Joanne just didn't know what to think about that other than it seemed unlikely either one of them would be mean and scary to a five year old girl. Especially this five year old girl, who had them both wrapped around both of her little pinky fingers.

"Who was mean and scary?" Joanne asked. "Was it Johnny?"

As he did occasionally, Johnny Gage had come over on the second of Roy and his days off, to help with some project. Joanne couldn't remember what, but it had to do with the deck out back. Sometimes she thought Roy made up projects as an excuse to invite Johnny's help, which she had resented when their partnership was new. To her mind, Roy should want to spend his free time with his family, not his loud and sometimes rude coworker. Then she had fallen in love with Johnny's free spirit as well, generally enjoyed his visits and now considered him family. Goodness knew Johnny in turn ate up the love like he was starving for it.

This most recent mysteriously vague project had come up because, she was sure, Roy had wanted to check up on Johnny without being obvious. They'd been exposed to chemicals at a fire on their last shift and Johnny had gotten the worst of it, his voice still suffering the effects. Though Roy would never admit it to anyone, she knew he had lingering concerns about his partner's health and well-being after what happened at Halloween. To both of them. She was all for her husband's fussing over his partner, had to admit she was still somewhat nervous for Johnny's health herself. Of course, she worried about both of them every time they went on duty. Her job had a lot of perks. That wasn't one of them.

"N-no," Jenny sobbed. "No."

Joanne's stomach sank. She didn't know yet for sure what had upset Jenny – it could be her daughter was blowing something out of proportion. Four and five year olds didn't have the best perspective. But Joanne hadn't wanted to pin whatever it was on Johnny. The alternative was even more upsetting, though it was true Roy had been kind of … remote lately, not quite himself.

"Jenny, I'm sure your daddy didn't try to be mean," Joanne said.

Jennifer became more inconsolable at the mention of her father, apparently taking no comfort in Joanne's assurance. Uninformed as she was, Joanne still found herself growing angry with Roy for upsetting their little girl so. It didn't matter if it was unintentional, and it bothered her that Roy hadn't followed Jenny to make sure she was okay after whatever happened, happened.

"How about you and Chris have a little snack while I go talk with Daddy?" And by talk, she meant argue. "Some graham crackers and milk?"

"I'll get the milk," Chris offered. "C'mon, Jenny. I'll help you break the graham crackers straight on their lines."

"Okay," Jenny said with one last sniffle. She swiped a hand under her nose. "You do it the best."

Joanne smiled at Chris for his help. She knew Jenny hated it when she couldn't quarter the graham crackers in perfect rectangle shapes, instead getting a mess of triangles and trapezoids. She got the kids situated with their treats, made sure Jenny's tears were not in remission but gone for good. Then she sought her husband and Johnny, got a surprise when they weren't on the deck. She heard a voice, Johnny's hoarse one, but only in fragments as she walked toward the sound. It came from the far end of their small lot, behind a toolshed Johnny and Roy had built together last year.

"Jesus Christ, Roy."

Johnny never swore at their house. He was really good about that. For a long time when they first met, Joanne hadn't even been sure there was an ounce of that kind of vulgarity in Johnny. She'd learned otherwise, of course, since Johnny was a single man without the need for much censorship, but to hear it at their home was a shock. It set her on edge and as more words floated toward her, that edge got sharper instead of softer.

"You coulda hurt … with you … own daughter. What's eating … don't know if I can…."

Roy might have said something, for there was a lapse in Johnny's gravelly tirade, but whatever it was Joanne couldn't hear. It seemed backwards, to be able to hear the one with laryngitis and not the one who was healthy and fit. Or maybe Roy hadn't responded, and that was just as disquieting. She frowned, at that and also because the words Johnny had said began to sink in. Even without context, she didn't like the implications.

"I don't know what's going on with you lately, but whatever it is, it has to stop. I haven't said anything, because I want to give you a chance to work it out. You have to work it out. You know it, Roy. Or … or …"

This Joanne heard one hundred percent, as it was spoken as she rounded the corner of the shed. Neither Roy nor Johnny noticed her at first, too busy facing off against each other as if they might start to fight right there. If the alarm bells were tinkling before, now they were so loud she might be deafened. Whatever this was, it was big. She'd never seen Roy make a fist in his whole life, but there his hands were, knuckles white and hands raised slightly. It was an offensive stance. Johnny, now. She could see Johnny as a man who might strike out under certain circumstances, but those circumstances wouldn't involve Roy. Never. Yet his posture was anything but aggressive.

Johnny noticed her first, startling like a cat at a loud, sudden noise. He managed to look alarmed and embarrassed and sad and guilty all at once, then recovered a bit until all he looked was ill. And exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes that appeared to have happened in the span of an hour. Impossible. He gave her a half smile and gave Roy a sidelong scowl.

"Joanne, I didn't. I don't. I … I should go," Johnny said. Whispered, really, voice mostly gone again. "I'm going."

Joanne didn't have the time to say a word, could only watch as Johnny took off like a shot for the front of the house and his jeep. That left her with Roy, who stared into space. Where Johnny had been reflecting a gamut of emotions, Roy stood with a blank expression on his face that terrified Joanne even more than the argument she'd just walked into, almost as much as thinking Jenny was hurt. Someone angry enough to nearly hit his good friend should have some color to his face, some fire in his eyes. She didn't know what had caused any of this. She didn't even know what "this" was. She only knew Jenny was upset and Johnny was upset and Roy was … not Roy. She took a step.

"Roy?" Joanne said. "Honey?"

Her attempt to get Roy's attention failed. Roy didn't so much as blink. Joanne took another step, nervous. The bits and pieces of what she'd heard Johnny saying started to form their own story in her head, fertilized by how odd Roy was behaving. Her brain took her to unpleasant places, led her to believe whatever had happened it had nearly resulted in Jenny being hurt, actually hurt. By Roy? No. Not in a million years.

"Roy." She said it more firmly this time.

There was still no sign Roy had heard her. Joanne took another step, put a hand on Roy's arm, and he reacted at last, jerking his arm away and blinking a couple times. He didn't look blank anymore, he looked haunted. It was going from bad to worse. She didn't flinch, didn't think she had a choice but to be direct, to push.

"Roy, Jenny just came into the house hysterical and I come out here to find you and Johnny fighting. You look like you've seen a ghost. What is going on?"

"I can't," Roy said. "Not right now."

"Yes, right now," Joanne said. "This can't wait."

Roy's expression flickered, anger finally sparking in his eyes. It was such an unusual thing to see, Joanne didn't know what to think or do. She blinked, took her hand off Roy's arm and stepped back. Her eyes drifted to his hands, saw them unclenched, and then back up. In the time it took her, Roy changed into the Roy she knew so well. Except not, still. He looked as ill as Johnny just had, as he looked from her face to his own hands and back up. He shook his head.

"Jenny startled me and I guess I scared her right back," Roy said.

"But why was Johnny…?"

"You know that partner of mine. He blows things out of proportion, and he's contagious so Jenny overreacted too." Roy smiled, and cupped Joanne's face with one hand, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "It was not a big thing."

She wanted to believe him. What he said made sense. Johnny did make mountains out of molehills and goodness knew that their little girl was at a very impressionable age. It could all simply be a misunderstanding; Johnny looked like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks, which would make him more prone to irritability and possibly to misjudging things.

"I'll go make sure Jenny's okay, tell her it was a mistake," Roy said. "That's all. A mistake."

And he walked away, leaving Joanne torn between relief and fear. She knew Roy better than anyone. None of her questions had been answered, she hadn't even had a chance to ask them. Nothing had been discussed. She remembered that anger which had flashed through Roy. If Jenny had seen that in him, it would explain as well as Johnny overreacting why the little girl had been so upset. As upset as she herself was becoming. She thought of all the times Roy had been off in the past few months, since almost losing Johnny in an unexpected, sudden way. She didn't think times amounted to anything, they were aberrations.

As she stood there, Joanne realized two things almost at once. The first was that in her gut, she knew Roy had lied to her for the first time ever in their marriage. The second was that Roy had not gone into the house to console his daughter, but had gone right past the door and around to the front yard.


	4. Mike Stoker

"I fold," Johnny said. "The cards aren't working for me today."

"Fold? You, Gage? Roy, go get the drug box, I think your partner's sick," Chet said. "He needs medication."

"Haha. You're hilarious, Kelly."

"I'm not joking, man. You never fold. You never even quit until you've lost your last penny to me. I'm genuinely concerned for your health, here."

Mike Stoker did his best to ignore the banter as he buttered the bread for garlic toast. He was glad he'd chosen to swap dinner duty with Marco instead of play a game of late afternoon poker. Given the choice between a boiling pot of pasta and dealing with his sometimes-annoying coworkers, he'd choose the pot almost every time. Today, he was planning to watch for the water to boil.

"Chet, you aren't concerned about anything but your pocketbook," Roy said, dryly.

Johnny started to laugh, but then Roy continued.

"Besides, you know Johnny's too stingy to actually win much off him."

"Hey!" Johnny managed to stretch out that one syllable so that by the end he was emitting nothing but a high-pitched squeak. "You don't have to be so, so, so…."

"What? Did I hurt your feelings? It's true."

"No, you didn't hurt my feelings," Johnny said, indignant. "You know I prefer the term frugal, that's all."

"Potayto, potahto," Roy said.

Mean was the word Johnny had been looking for before, Mike thought. Sometimes Roy _was_ mean to Johnny, and sometimes Johnny all but asked for it. Mike glanced at the table, saw Johnny appeared perplexed and perhaps a little pained, Roy turned slightly away from him. Chet and Marco were both smiling, but to Mike the smiles looked hesitant. He was probably projecting.

"You have to admit, amigo, you resemble that remark," Marco said, laughing.

That was the right thing to say. Johnny lost the real pained look and adopted a fake wounded one instead.

"Et tu, Marco?" Johnny said. "It's not like there's anything wrong with keeping an eye on your finances."

Mike had to smile despite himself. Choosing to skip poker wasn't because he didn't like his shift mates. Not at all. He considered them his good friends, but he wasn't quite like the rest of them and he knew it. Usually Mike found station life perfect for him, that it allowed him to interact with people and yet his role as engineer kept him isolated enough to remain sane. Then again, some days the amount of time he spent trapped in a relatively small space with such big personalities left him feeling very exhausted.

Lately it seemed like those big personalities were getting even more exaggerated, as if they all were making up for lost time. He doubted anyone else noticed it, and the two most affected were Chet and Johnny, who had always been above and beyond everyone else in that area anyway. Hours could pass without hearing a peep out of Marco or Roy or Cap. Or himself. He doubted very much if either Johnny or Chet could survive more than five minutes of not speaking.

"Gage, everyone knows you're a tightwad," Chet said. "Just embrace it, babe."

Chet's laughter filled the room, and he carried on with more insults aimed at Johnny's penny-pinching ways. Mike tuned them out. He didn't know if Chet was increasing his obnoxiousness since Johnny came back to duty to annoy or if he was actually bothered by something and couldn't come right out and say it. Chet had a tendency to amplify his already big character at times, usually when there was something else going on with him. There was almost always a root cause. Their Phantom would have everyone believe he was a hard case. No one had the heart to tell him he wasn't fooling a soul. That transparency didn't shed a light on why he was being a big buffoon right now. Like Mike said, Chet's recent behavior could be nothing, just a Chet Kelly giddy reaction to having Johnny back, or it could be something else. They might never know.

Mike did know it had gotten even worse after the big warehouse fire they'd been on, their second shift back together. He puzzled what that might mean, tried to remember any details from that fire. All he could remember was some fool had left barrels of highly flammable and explosive materials there, and it had nearly cost them lives. As it was, he heard Wallace out of Station 10 was going to be out for at least three months, and the poor homeless man Roy and John had pulled free barely survived.

"Need a hand with anything, Mike?"

He must have gone too far into his own head, because the softly spoken words startled Mike so much the knife slipped from his hand. He made a quick move to catch it, failed. The knife bounced off the countertop and landed in the sink with a clang. Mike looked at Johnny, who raised his eyebrows. Behind them, at the table, Roy had jerked to life. From the looks of him, Mike thought, Roy was about half a second from leaping to his feet before he relaxed back into his chair. He looked slightly pale to Mike, but Mike was no paramedic.

"Didn't notice you come over," Mike said with a smile. He took out a new knife, leaving the other in the sink.

"So I see." Johnny leaned against the counter on one elbow, fingers intertwined and legs stretched out slightly. "I can do that if you want."

"I got it."

Mike glanced at his friend, who looked restless. Johnny pretty much always looked restless, but this felt different somehow, that kind of itchiness that came with needing a distraction and not his high metabolism at work. Mike wasn't sure what Johnny needed a distraction from. He also wasn't sure it mattered.

"You could get the lettuce ready for the salad," Mike suggested.

"Sure," Johnny said, relieved.

Johnny proceeded to retrieve a head of lettuce from the refrigerator and clean it, with his usual seemingly haphazard approach. Water splashed everywhere, bits of lettuce flew about. Mike knew Johnny wasn't _actually_ haphazard; a guy didn't become one of the best paramedics and rescue men in the county by being a mess. It was one of those things that made Johnny a walking contradiction, and one of the most challenging people to get to know. Really know, anyway.

On the surface, it sometimes looked like there wasn't much to figure out about Johnny, but there were moments that led Mike to believe making that assumption was foolish. It was as if Johnny purposely made himself look shallow and spastic. Like both being and appearing competent were too much to bear at the same time. Or something.

Mike was pretty sure the only one at the station who came close to knowing Johnny was Roy. In many ways, their partnership didn't make sense. But anyone who didn't believe in opposites attracting or in yin/yang had never met the A-shift paramedics at LA County Fire Station 51. They really couldn't be more different, and yet they couldn't be more perfectly suited. Mike thought at this point it was virtually impossible to have Roy without Johnny or Johnny without Roy. The idea was distressing for him to think about, and he wasn't one easily distressed.

He had no clue why this was on his mind. He grabbed the garlic salt and began sprinkling it on the buttered French bread slices. Mike looked over to the table and the poker game that was no longer being played. Chet and Marco were talking about something that had Chet moving his hands a lot. Roy chewed on his lip and stared at the table, appearing forlorn somehow. Mike returned his attention to Johnny, noting dark circles under his eyes. He frowned.

"Tomatoes?" Johnny asked.

"Yep," Mike said. "Thanks."

He turned on the burner, retrieved the pot and added water and salt. Timing was the most crucial part in making his meal perfect and his spaghetti the stuff of legend. Well, that and the sauce Mike had to admit himself was the best he'd ever tasted probably didn't hurt, either. He remembered how annoyed Roy had gotten with Johnny for sharing Mike's recipe with his wife. In a way, it was comforting to know that the county's best paramedic duo weren't perfect all the time.

The pot of water had only begun to bubble when the klaxons blared, made everyone jump to action. Mike, Chet and Marco settled; the tones called out for the squad only. Sounded minor, but Mike discovered he was unable to shake his unease every time the squad got called out alone these days. Didn't matter how minor.

"Ah, man," Johnny said. "It never fails."

It was worse now that Johnny was back, but it had happened even with the array of temporary paramedics that had filled in for him. Mike knew it was him being a mother hen and a worrywart. At the same time, he was surprised Johnny's – and Roy's – incident with Cat Drewes hadn't sparked a hard and fast change in regs. He fairly itched to turn the water off, hop in the engine and follow them on their call. He'd make up his own personal regulations.

"I'll make sure we save you some if you're not back in time for dinner," Mike said. Even if it meant he'd have to make more pasta, he'd make sure there was something for Johnny and Roy. Johnny was looking skinnier again. Yep, Mike was a confirmed mother hen. "I won't let Chet eat it all."

"Thanks, Mike, you're the best." Johnny put the knife and tomato down on the cutting board, ran his hands under the faucet for a second. "Your spaghetti is just as good cold as it is hot, so don't wor—"

"Come on, Junior, get the lead out," Roy interrupted from the door. "We don't have all day."

Johnny knit his eyebrows and flicked his fingers to shake off some water. He rubbed his hands on his pants. He started moving without a word, finishing his conversation with Mike with a hand wave and a backwards glance.

As soon as Johnny was out the kitchen door, Cap sauntered in with a hand on his belly and an odd expression on his face. It quickly turned into a half smile and a nod to Mike as Cap headed for the tomatoes Johnny had to abandon. Mike noticed that Cap's left ear was slightly red, which meant he'd been on the phone. Must have something to do with what was on his mind. Mike nodded back to Cap, as he dropped the pasta in the pot and put the bread in the oven to toast.

"Looking good, Stoker," Cap said. "Kelly, Lopez, why don't you be pals and set the table, huh?"

Chet and Marco both responded without pause, and quickly cleared the table of cards and loose change that remained from the last hand and the daily paper, which had been stacked in the corner. Mike noted Chet made off with all of the money. He rolled his eyes. Typical. They all accused Johnny of being reluctant to part with his cash, and he was, but Chet wasn't much better. He was just sneaky about it, where Johnny didn't even realize he was a cheapskate until people pointed it out. Mike sometimes wondered what it was about both Johnny's and Chet's upbringings that made them feel they had to keep their money so close, but then he supposed each and every one of them at the station came from families that struggled out of the Depression. Some people had it rougher than others. Some people always did.

Chet brushed by him, grabbed six plates from the cupboard. He shrugged at Mike.

"Gage and DeSoto might get back in time," Chet said.

"They probably will," Mike agreed.

But they didn't.

As the rest of them all enjoyed a quiet dinner, there was no sign of the paramedics' return. As the rest of them settled in for a relaxing evening, the squad didn't back into the bay. Mike lounged on the sofa, watching Chet and Marco watch television and also keeping an eye on the door. He thought he couldn't be the only one who felt off kilter, but he didn't know what he was even feeling specifically enough to bring it up. Roy and Johnny were fine. There hadn't been any indication otherwise. Until they came back, though, he didn't think the feeling in his gut would go away. Cap wandered into the day room, Mike assumed from his office. He dropped onto the sofa, left leg instantly jostling up and down with nervous energy that waned after a few minutes, and a few sideways glances from Mike.

There they sat all night, until one by one they headed for the dorms. Mike waved off Cap's suggestion of turning in. He stayed on the sofa, though he wasn't sure why. He was tired but not tired at the same time; boredom did that. One lousy dumpster fire run would have probably done them all some good. He tilted his head against the back of the sofa and drifted, listened to the sounds of the station settling. The tap running, murmurs emanating from the locker room. It was all normal and comforting.

He didn't know what woke him, didn't realize he had fallen all the way asleep with his arms crossed over his chest and legs stretched in front of him. Mike sat up. His muscles weren't stiff, so he couldn't have been asleep that long. He glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty. He should probably hit the sack. With a sigh, he stood and stretched, heard a vehicle door click shut and the bay door rolling down. Oh, good. Maybe Johnny and Roy would get some sleep tonight after all. Mike walked to the door between the bay and the kitchen, stopping when he heard voices. He didn't want to listen, but couldn't not.

"You were totally out of line and you know it," Johnny snapped. "I'm not … I can't do this forever, Roy."

"What're you saying?" Roy sounded weary, yet hard. "I wish for once you would get to the damned point. All you do is talk, but you never say anything."

Mike raised his eyebrows.

"You're wrong. I say a lot and I've been saying this thing a lot. You aren't hearing me." Johnny huffed, an angry sound. "If you don't wanna tal…"

Either Johnny stopped speaking or he'd lowered his voice, Mike wasn't sure which. He held his breath and waited, feeling like a heel for eavesdropping. He'd thought before about how it was nice to have reminders that Johnny and Roy's partnership wasn't perfect, but he took it back now. After a minute or two – seemed like more – he heard shuffling footsteps leading toward the dorm.

And a forceful, "Roy!" that went unanswered.

Mike had no idea what specific thing Roy and Johnny were yelling about, yet he felt nine years old again, like he was sitting on the steps in his pajamas, listening to his parents fight about taxes or the lawn or who knew what. It didn't matter what. After bedtime fights were always about things parents could only deal with when they thought their children were tucked safely away. Back when he was nine, he always regretted hearing his mom and dad fight even after he'd decided he thought he had to know exactly why they'd been grouchy at dinner. He'd never gotten any real understanding, just a stomachache and the burden of carrying around the knowledge that his parents weren't always happy.

As it turned out, he regretted it at twenty-nine too.


	5. Marco Lopez

Firefighters were light sleepers in some regards, but not all. They had to be ready to leap to their feet in an instant, think quickly to save lives and property at any hour, but they had to be able to sleep through annoyances. There was a difference between being able to rouse at the sound of loud alarms and waking when someone else moved or coughed or farted, all of which happened a _lot_ when six guys were bunked together. The balance was delicate, and something they all learned to cope with. For some, that was more of a challenge than for others.

Marco Lopez was one of them. He had overcome most of his extreme light sleeper traits within the first three months of his active duty, years ago. He could now sleep through a Chet Kelly snore-a-thon if he had to, and he often had to. So he was surprised when he woke up at the soft moan. Not only did he awaken, but his heart raced like it was the klaxons alerting them to an emergency. He raised his head and peered through the dim lighting at his shift mates. All of them seemed to be in their beds and none of them were tossing or turning. He frowned, but stayed still to see if it happened again.

He thought about who it might be. He suspected Roy. Marco knew he wasn't the only one who'd noticed Roy was not quite himself, even though none of them had mentioned it in so many words. Rather, it was that Roy and Johnny didn't seem to be on the same page yet, their usual seamless teamwork filled with tiny little tears. Marco would talk to Cap about it in the morning, after shift and after Roy left. Cap would know what to do. It didn't seem right around the station when any of them were arguing. He didn't even know if that was what was going on, but he couldn't think of anything else. Of course, he couldn't think of what Johnny and Roy might be fighting about, either, and Roy had been different for so many months because of all of his temporary partners and worry for his regular partner while he recuperated it was difficult to say for sure why this different felt … different.

Just as he was about to slip back to sleep, his restless shift mate moaned, gasped and then moved. Marco heard the bed sheets rustle and then the bare scrape of turnout boots slide across the floor just a hair. Someone stood, a joint cracking. He would have thought that would wake someone else up, but then remembered it was only loud to him because he was already on alert. He didn't move, uncertain why. It wasn't Roy but Johnny who walked past his bed, the heel of one hand pressed against his right eye. He surmised that Johnny must have a headache and needed an aspirin or something.

He rolled to his side, mentally scoffing at his unfounded worry. He supposed he was on edge, that was why a quiet sound or two woke him up. In the bed next to his, Chet began snoring in earnest. Oh boy. Marco was good at staying asleep despite that racket, but if Chet started in before he could reach the Land of Nod, he was in trouble. Mucho. If they had as dull a night as they had a day and evening, he was going to be very miserable soon. He curled the pillow over his ear to muffle the chainsaw effect.

After about ten minutes of relentless snoring, Marco tossed onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He could resign himself to misery, or he could go catch some Zs on the sofa in the day room. His momma didn't raise no fool. He had his turnout out pants on and suspenders up before he realized Johnny hadn't come back to the dorm yet. The uneasy feeling crept back up for a second, then he realized Johnny must have woken up because of Chet's snoring. He frowned. That also meant the sofa was probably taken. Rats.

Since he was up anyway, Marco headed for the kitchen to get a glass of milk. Maybe if he was lucky, Chet would have stopped snoring by the time he got back. He rolled his eyes. Yeah, right. He resisted the urge to jostle Chet's bed as he walked by. When he got closer to the kitchen, he slowed his steps to be as quiet as possible. He didn't want to wake Johnny up; the guy had looked tired lately. His caution was for nothing, as he glanced at the day room sofa and saw Johnny wasn't there. The back door was open, the faint smell of cigarette smoke wafting into the station along with the unseasonably cool air they'd been experiencing for the past few weeks.

Milk forgotten, Marco went outside. He saw Johnny right away, where he leaned on his jeep, one foot resting on the bumper. From a distance he looked relaxed, but the closer Marco got, the more he saw the tense lines of Johnny's body, that he had his head tilted up as if he were looking at the stars except his eyes were closed. Gooseflesh stood out on his arms. Marco frowned.

"Johnny?" he said. "You okay, amigo?"

Johnny jerked, his arm flailed, sent the cigarette flying out of his hand. It landed on asphalt, a few embers sparking off like miniature fireworks.

Despite the dimness, Marco saw Johnny's face clearly. For a second, only a blink of an eye, it was like Johnny wasn't there in the parking lot of the station house. He couldn't tell where Johnny was in his own head. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, because in that second he saw something he'd never witnessed before in Johnny: fear. Stone cold fear. He didn't know how to approach the subject, or if he should. He didn't know any man who would openly admit to having fear, about anything.

"Oh, I didn't mean to wake anyone up. I don't usu –" Johnny said, stopping mid word.

Usually. That probably meant this had happened before.

"I just didn't mean to wake you up, Marco. I'm sorry."

For weeks, Marco had looked at Johnny like a long-missing companion finally returned. He'd been so glad to have the A-shift back together again and so worried that they weren't really all back together again because of _Roy_ I that he hadn't seen the dark circles shadowing beneath Johnny's eyes. Didn't notice that Johnny was so skinny. Didn't see the lines of fatigue pinching at his face. And now that he did see it all, his worry skyrocketed.

"Forget about me. Chet's snoring would have woken me up anyway." Marco waved a hand to complete his exaggeration. He crossed to Johnny's left side and leaned against the Rover's grill. "But, usually? You've been up like this before. Johnny, when's the last time you slept through the night?"

"Can't sleep. Sometimes I can't sleep."

Johnny rubbed a shaking hand down his face, pulled it away to stare at it before making a fist and resting it on his thigh. With his other hand, he reached for the pack of cigarettes, flicked one halfway out and toyed with it for a second before sliding it back in.

"Whenever I hear a _Santana_ song on the radio lately I break into a cold sweat," Johnny said. He turned as if to look at Marco, but his gaze never made it there, locking on a point beyond Marco's shoulder instead. "I used to like _Santana_ too."

The turn in conversation confused Marco. He couldn't understand what _Santana_ had to do with Johnny standing out in the parking lot in the middle of the cold night. The radio wasn't on. The radio was hardly ever on at the station.

"It's different for Roy, but it's all the same in the end, I suppose."

"What are you talking about?"

Johnny looked at him, finally. Marco hoped it was simply the shadows in the parking lot accentuating the hollow expression he saw in his friend's face. In a way, it was worse than the fear he'd seen earlier.

"Doesn't matter." Johnny took a deep breath, then smiled. He pushed off the Rover, moved to the driver's side. He opened the door and tossed the cigarettes on the dash. "Never mind. Don't worry about me, I'm fine."

Marco wondered how Johnny could even think of saying that. All any of them had done for months was worry about him. Until he came back to work, then they'd been preoccupied.

"You don't look fine. Roy doesn't seem fine, either."

Gauging Johnny now, he felt terrible that he'd missed the signs that not all was well with his friend. The very _first_ thing Marco was going to do after the morning tones was talk to Cap; it no longer mattered if Roy was around to see it, or if Johnny was. Because they all knew Roy was anything but okay, and now he worried Johnny wasn't far behind.

"I can do the job," Johnny said sharply. "We can both do the job."

The thing was that Marco didn't know what the problem was. If Johnny hadn't been sleeping while he was in his recovery, then he never would have been cleared for active duty. Nothing bad had happened since then, yet Johnny seemed more tired than ever. Maybe he was blowing it all out proportion, letting his imagination get the better of him. It was late, he was tired himself.

"I know you can," Marco said. "I also know that the less you sleep, the harder the job is going to get. And Roy … man, I don't even know."

"I'm handling it. All of it. It's fine."

Johnny walked toward the station, ending the conversation when to Marco it had only started. It was probably for the best. He wasn't the right man for this job. Normally, all things Johnny fell on Roy's shoulders. Marco's frown deepened. He went from being concerned about Roy to being concerned about Roy _and_ Johnny. He did not like this one bit. He had half a mind to wake Cap now, only he figured Cap would only call him a twit and wring his neck. He told himself again that he was overreacting, but the pit in his stomach would not go away. If he kept it up, Johnny wouldn't be the only one in the station suffering from too little sleep.

He trailed after Johnny, turning over the worrisome thoughts of his friends. He doubted he'd get much sleep for the rest of the night anyway, because he seemed to be keeping it up even after he'd told himself not to. If he knew anything about Johnny, it was that he sometimes protested too much, so Marco was not confident at all that Johnny was okay to work. He didn't like having doubts. He didn't like thinking something might be wrong that none of them could fix.

As Marco flipped the kitchen lock into position, the lights flipped on and alarms rang throughout the station. It sounded big, another structure fire. Those seemed to be happening more and more often lately, in the same district. He didn't listen to the specifics, only that they and several other full stations had been called out. He cursed the timing, and the pit in his stomach agreed wholeheartedly. He hated going into a fire with a feeling of dread already firmly rooted. There was the standard dread, offset by excitement and anticipation, and then there was that Bad Feeling everyone he'd ever worked with had had at one time or another.

Once they hit the scene, all thoughts but those reserved for fighting fire usually disappeared. There wasn't room for them in the controlled chaos of a big fire. Time lost meaning as well. In the midst of heat and flames, hours were minutes and minutes were hours. The familiarity of this fire didn't allow him to turn off all thoughts, though. It was almost the same as a few weeks ago. Old building, abandoned except for transients. He was grateful, as he and Chet turned the hose on the flames eating through walls, that this time someone had had the foresight to look for potential explosives and accelerants before committing men into the building.

Smoke was heavy and dark, and Marco's mask fogged up from his rapid breathing and sweat. He felt claustrophobic, another layer of fear added to the standard mix. It took a special kind of person to do this job, and he was glad to be among the ranks of some of the most special. Didn't mean he always liked knowing he was venturing ahead when all reason said he should fall back. Sweat dripped in his eyes, further hindering his vision. He absently brushed at his face, somehow forgetting for a moment he had a mask on until his hand clunked against it. The weight of the tank strapped to his back grew somehow heavier as it emptied, as his adrenaline started to crap out on him.

Marco was on lead. He turned to tap Chet on the shoulder. They were almost out of air, time for a new tank. Behind Chet, he saw Roy and Johnny heading for the door with a large, unconscious person between them. His eyes were too compromised to make out much of anything but it was them. He recognized their movements. Chet looked too.

He thought he and Chet should go help, clear a path for them. Chet was on the same page without anything more than a slap to the shoulder and a pointing finger. They'd taken two steps when a dark shape came right out of the flames, to the left of Roy. A man, his hair matted and wet with sweat. Suddenly Marco could see _everything_ , but he couldn't move. The man shouted, he couldn't hear what. He opened his own mouth to yell. He didn't have to. Roy was obviously aware, his body twisting as the man drew close. Johnny's reactions were sluggish, fatigued. The person they'd been holding up collapsed in a heap. Johnny faltered, tripped slightly, arms flying out. Marco watched Roy shove Johnny out of the way. Saw Johnny collide with the wall, helmet jarring loose and mask falling askew off half his face. There was a glint of metal in the attacking man's hand – oh no, a knife? – and the building rumbled. Marco fell to one knee, lost his grip on the hose.

Everything blurred, his exhalations speeding up and filling the inside of his mask with condensation even faster. Marco scrambled forward on his hands and knees. The hose swung wildly. He tried to snag it and failed. He gave Chet a quick glance. He turned his full attention on Roy and Johnny when he found Chet to be mobile enough to have grabbed the active line, noted Johnny sprawled on his back, unmoving. Roy was … Roy was fending off the transient as best as he could. His movements were frantic. With horror, Marco saw that what he'd guessed as a knife _was_ , and it was buried to the hilt in Roy's left thigh. The guy's hand was still on it, white knuckled and strong. Had to be strong to get through turnout material. There was blood mixed with soot on the guy's fingers.

Timber fell from the sky, broken boards and chunks of plaster. A good sized one connected with Marco's helmet, enough to stun but not put him out. He watched as Roy fell, losing the battle with the frenzied man. Then his view became obstructed when the structure collapsed, separating him and Chet from Roy, Johnny, their victim and their attacker. It was too possible that he'd watched his friends be buried alive.

"Oh Dios," Marco gasped and fumbled for the HT. He hated when Bad Feelings were right.


	6. Dixie McCall

Sometimes Dixie McCall regretted doing the right thing by scheduling herself for an overnight once a month. The privilege of rank exempted her, but she didn't want to lose sight of all the nitty-gritty bits of the job. Her parents had instilled in her as a child the idea that a person should never become "too good" to do the grunt work. She had to seriously reconsider that. She thought Doctor Kelly Brackett was a masochist – he frequently worked overnights, just because that was who he was. As far as she was concerned, two AM wasn't fit for anyone on any given night. Unfortunately, sickness and injury didn't hold to a clock.

The shift was only half over and it had already been a long one. Two bad multiple vehicle TAs had brought in a dozen injured people, some critical. Several heart attacks, a teenage couple connected at the lips (and stuck) by their braces and a man who'd managed to remove the tips of three fingers from his left hand had also kept the emergency department on its toes. It had been so busy Kel was still in surgery with one of the accident patients and Doctor Erik Steinhardt had been hopping all over the place to compensate. So had the interns. During quiet moments, the department looked like a ghost town, folks scattering to get rest when they could.

And it wasn't even a full moon.

The next best crackpot theory was that the universe was conspiring against her and everyone else working the graveyard shift tonight. Dixie felt every one of her years and hated the reminder that she had so many to feel. By the haggard looks on even her youngest nurses, fresh-faced babies they all were, she wasn't alone in that. Occasionally, it was difficult to tell if it was her age that made things seem worse than they were, and there was some gratification that it wasn't always the primary factor.

"Angela, I'm going to go grab a cup of coffee," Dixie said. Everyone couldn't take a nap. "I think you can keep things under control for a few minutes."

"Of course," Angela said, for once without her usual enthusiasm. The dark-haired nurse yawned, barely covering her mouth. She grinned sheepishly. "A bit of a lull right now, isn't there?"

"Ah, you just jinxed us." Dixie shook her head slowly, with a twinkle in her eye to show she was joking. In reality she was only half kidding. It just seemed to be one of those nights where imaginary things like jinxes turned into reality. "Tell you what, I'll bring you a cup when I come back."

"That'd be fantastic, thank you. I take it black, unless it's awful and then two sugars, please."

"You got it."

Dixie straightened her spine in a nearly invisible stretch while she walked. As a reward, her back cracked and popped, vertebrae seemed to shunt back into place. What she wouldn't do for a long, hot bath. A cup of mediocre coffee and a cigarette would have to do for now, but the second she got home she was heading for the tub. If the rest of the shift continued at the same pace, then she was adding a bottle of wine to that home remedy. Oh, damn it, she just added her own jinx. Sure enough, she hadn't made it more than ten steps when she heard a crackle and a tinny voice.

"Rampart, this is squad 8. Do you read?"

Squad 8 – she couldn't remember where they had been dispatched. Sometimes it didn't matter until they called in a patient, but knowing the location could give some indication of what was coming. Dixie glanced at the board, noted with a frown that most of the squads were in action somewhere. Only squad 36 was in limbo, because they'd dropped off Fingertip Man not that long ago.

Dixie quickly checked the corridor for a doctor. She didn't see one, but she pushed the button and responded, "Go ahead, squad 8."

"Rampart, we have two immediate victims, both Code I caught in a building collapse," Reggie Haas stated, his voice terse. "First is a male, age twenty-eight. Vitals: BP 130/90, heart rate 90 BPM, respiration 30. Victim has contusions to the right ribcage, but the right upper quadrant is soft. Suspect badly bruised ribs, maybe cracked."

Sounded about right, but it also sounded too minor for the readings. Shock was a funny thing, though, and this victim was surely veering right for it. The BP would drop. Dixie's skin prickled. It was bad enough seeing civilians hurt, but firefighters were one of their own as far as she was concerned. An added layer of concern formed at the "immediate" descriptor Haas used. There was going to be more. Dixie spotted Steinhardt exiting four and waved him over. He jogged to the base station.

"Second victim," Haas continued, "is also male, age twenty-seven. Vitals: BP 140/95, heart rate 105, respiration 35. Victim two received a blow to the head, but says he did not lose consciousness."

In the background, Dixie heard shouting. Normally, they couldn't hear extraneous noise, so Haas must be holding the receiver away from him for some reason. She couldn't make out the words, but the sentiment was clear: whoever it was, was extremely upset and extremely vocal about it. The shouting cut off. She frowned and handed Steinhardt the pad she'd written the vitals on.

"Getting shocky," Steinhardt said to her before he depressed the button. "Squad 8, IV D5W TKO for both patients. Continue monitoring and transport ASAP. Let us know if there is any change to their status."

"Affirmative, IV D5W TKO," Haas repeated. "Ambulance is at scene."

"ID," Dixie murmured.

Steinhardt nodded. "8, please identify the patients. If they've been on the injured list before, we can have their files ready."

"Victim one is Chet Kelly, victim two, Marco Lopez."

Oh, no. Dixie knew just because two of 51's men had been caught in it didn't mean their rescue/paramedic crew had been. For all she knew, Roy and Johnny had been far away from the event. She swallowed, her throat suddenly feeling much narrower than it should.

"What's the situation with the other four victims?" Steinhardt asked, sounding tense.

He was new enough that he didn't know all the paramedics based out of Rampart well, but Dixie could see that didn't make him any less concerned.

"Ah, the estimated evac time is twenty minutes or so. No contact has been established, but we have it on good authority at least one civilian and one Code I sustained injuries before the collapse," Haas said. His voice faded at the end, the receiver pulled away from his mouth.

"Lopez, keep your butt on that stretcher," someone said. "You're going in. We'll take care of…"

"Rampart, Lopez is, ah, requesting to stay and assist with the rescue."

Hell. That confirmed it for Dixie; if it wasn't Roy and Johnny trapped in the collapse, it was _someone_ from Station 51. Considering the only other two of the crew were the captain and the engineer, both the "safest" positions, it seemed her two friends were stuck in a pile. The biggest question now was who was injured, and how badly.

"Negative, 8. Get him in here." Steinhardt gave Dixie a sidelong look. "Strap him down if you have to."

No LOC and coherence – chances were Lopez had suffered a minor concussion, if that. Dixie didn't disagree with the doctor's orders, but at the same time knew what a tight-knit group firefighters were. To witness friends being hurt was bad enough. To be forced to leave before knowing their status was brutal. The shock readings they were getting were probably as much from emotional state as they were from physical injury, not that any man would ever admit to that.

"Ten-four."

Dixie chewed on her pencil. She _wanted_ to take up the radio herself and demand to know if they were worried about loss of oxygen, what kind of injuries they were looking at, what the hell had happened. She was ever the professional, though, and made sure her expression and movements showed none of her turmoil. It was too soon for something like this to happen. Johnny'd only been cleared for duty a few weeks ago.

"8, can you tell me the known injuries of the trapped victims?"

Steinhardt must have been reading her mind. Dixie leaned closer, though she could hear fine where she stood. Luck being what it was tonight, what she heard instead was shouting over at the admitting desk. That was her realm, and even if it weren't, Steinhardt bobbed his head that direction. Duty called, and right now she hated duty even while loving to help people. She caught the doctor's eye as she passed and he nodded. One way or another, he'd try to keep her in the loop.

There was a ruckus at the admitting desk, which she sensed with her trained eye and wealth of experience would escalate to an all-out brawl if no one intervened. Dixie flagged down two orderlies to flank her. As they joined the scene, two young men began pounding each other like the emergency department was their own private boxing ring. Except bystanders were quickly swept into the mess, Angela taking an elbow to the stomach. Now, Dix was angry.

Judging by her quick appraisal, she'd say the fight hadn't begun there. The two main fighters looked roughed up, some bruises already starting to appear. The distinct odor of ETOH hung in the air. Bar fight, then. The scene descended to chaos quickly, and Dixie did what she could to pull Angela out of harm's way as well as usher those waiting for friends and loved ones to a safe locale. Angela must have called the police – the pair of yahoos must not have been brought in by them or somehow had arrived peaceably; she didn't know the story and didn't care – because two uniforms appeared as if by magic, lending authority and muscle. It wasn't enough. Some of the bystanders, friends for each fighter, had joined the melee, and the area was awash with angry shouts and fearful cries.

Time blurred, the way it always did when the department was busy. Before she even realized it, more help had arrived, the idiots and their cohorts had all been sequestered into exam rooms for treatment, and some of them hauled to the police station. Dixie glanced at the clock, alarmed to see nearly an hour had passed. She tucked a loose hair behind her ear, straightened out her rumpled uniform and gave Mike Morton an eye roll. He pursed his lips right back.

"Sometimes I wonder why I do this job," she said.

"You and me both, Dixie. You and me both," Mike said.

She left Mike with fighter number two, who had calmed and stayed docile after Dixie left the tender and loving out of her care. She had a list a mile long of tough guys who were terrified of needles, and she knew just how to handle them. Anxiously, she looked around for Steinhardt and saw him nowhere. Now that the commotion had dissipated, her adrenaline left her. Her brain refocused on what she'd been doing before becoming a bouncer: Johnny and Roy, collapsed buildings and known injuries (to everyone but her – something she had to remedy).

The waiting area was still a wreck. Dixie slowly righted an overturned chair, wondered where Lopez and Kelly had been taken. With their injuries, they'd probably already been sent upstairs as hospital guests or discharged back to scene. She caught sight of Angela at the admitting desk. Her nurse looked a wreck too.

"See, now didn't I tell you that you jinxed us?" Dixie said, forgoing her need for information of her friends for a moment. Her own concerns didn't mean there weren't other people under her charge that also needed her care. "You doing okay?"

"I'll be fine, not the first elbow I've taken, probably not the last. And we're about to get more excitement. Some night, huh?"

"Some night."

She took another scan of the department, frowning when she saw Kel, fresh out of surgery, at the base station with a look on his face she recognized instantly as bad news. Dixie patted Angela on the hand and told her to buck up, which was ironic because it seemed to Dixie that her own stomach had turned to water. Mike Morton manned the other radio, looked even more tense than usual. Her nursing staff bustled about. She'd have recognized the signs of something big coming in even if she hadn't already known it.

"Kel?" she asked.

"You heard?" Kel asked instead of answering.

"Not the specifics, I've had my hands full."

"We've got Gage and DeSoto coming in hot, plus their two civilians. We're looking at a p –"

"Kel, we've got three and four ready for Gage and DeSoto. I've called for X-ray and vascular. O Neg's on the way," Steinhardt called as he popped out of four and trotted toward them. "Sharon's working on rooms for the civilians. It's going to be tight because of the brawl earlier. What's the ETA?"

Vascular and X-ray. O Neg. Dixie frowned.

"About two mi…" The sound of doors whooshing open interrupted Kel. "Right now, it would seem."

Dixie wasn't going to have advanced notice. She followed behind as Kel and Steinhardt headed for the doors. The tension in the air was so thick she swore she could feel it wrapping its arms around her, an unwelcome embrace. She tried to shake it off, but couldn't. She glanced over at Kel, who had his customary scowl in place, the one most didn't realize had slight variations. This was the "I don't like it, Dix" scowl. She didn't know what to expect, but if Kel had that look, she'd better be ready for anything.

She wasn't.

Johnny came first, face pale beneath dirt and soot, blood and bandages. Bob Bellingham, who was filling in for someone - she couldn't think who, ran alongside the gurney with an IV bag held between his teeth, looking extremely focused. It'd been over an hour, who knew how long before that. A prolonged period of unconsciousness wasn't a good sign. Dixie hoped he had been awake at some point. Bellingham said something about limited responses and pupil reaction. Steinhardt took off after Johnny, instructing the ambulance attendants to put him in three. She wanted to go too, but before she could move an inch, another gurney flew by. This one carried Roy and Reggie Haas, who stood on the girders with his hands clamped on Roy's left thigh. A millisecond's look was all she needed to know it wasn't good. There was a lot of blood.

"Oh no," she said, she and Kel moving together. "Was that what I think it was?"

"I'm afraid so. He's got two penetrating wounds to the left thigh. One possibly hit bone, the other definitely hit the femoral. Roy's lucky the second wound happened just before they were rescued, or he might be dead right now. It's still going to be awfully close."

Dixie felt ill. Knife, major loss of blood. Oh, Roy. She wanted to collapse for a moment to process, but she squared her shoulders and prepared herself for her job instead. Many of the paramedic teams working out of Rampart felt like family to her, but only two of them were _her boys_. She hadn't intended to have that kind of response to them, but who ever does? Roy had gotten into her heart first with his dedication to a program that had so many opponents and his dogged pursuit of doing the right thing for the good of the many. There was a lot to love about Roy DeSoto, and like hell if he was going to die on her watch.

At the entrance, the two civilians were coming in. She spared a backwards glance at the shouting, making sure none of her staff were in danger. They didn't need a repeat of before.

"Get your hands offa me," one yelled, upright and mobile. "Sam! Sammy!"

She saw and knew the officers who had been dispatched to accompany the civilians to the hospital. Pete Malloy and Jim Reed were both doing their best to subdue the patient who looked more like a perp, and having a rough go of it. They could handle themselves. Every muscle was tensed as the man surged for the other civilian, who was unconscious and pale. Even from a distance, Dix could read madness in the man's eyes and snippets of his shouts, something about fire demons and time travel, confirmed that early diagnosis. This was all too déjà vu for her, only with the roles almost reversed. She looked toward three, thought of Johnny. Then she heard Kel call for a clamp, and hurried in to help save Roy – because the final outcome had to be déjà vu too.


	7. Kelly Brackett

"Have you eaten today?" Hank Stanley's voice came from the waiting room. "Actually, when was the last time you ate, period?"

To whom the captain was speaking could be any one of a number of people. At any given time, there were no fewer than three of Roy DeSoto and Johnny Gage's friends and family members waiting or visiting. The last forty-eight hours had been arduous and long. There was no doubt about that. Doctor Kelly Brackett's stomach grumbled, as if in direct response to Hank's query. It might as well have been asked of him too. Kel's stomach was hollow, because so many times during these two days when every chance he'd had to grab a bite and fuel himself up had vanished into another crisis.

Kel stood closed his eyes and gave himself a moment while also allowing those waiting for him to have a few more minutes of peace. He knew he had the reputation for being no-nonsense and a bit of a hardnose, but the truth of the matter was he felt everything deeply. Some of the things he saw … well, he really would be heartless if he didn't feel them, but at the same time knew his energy had to be focused. He couldn't let his emotions rule where his medical expertise and experience were needed more. He'd be on fast track to burnout, and the patients he cared so much about would suffer. That was something he'd learned years ago, and he diligently kept up an internal wall to dam off the feelings until after shift. Usually.

"I couldn't tell you, and I couldn't eat anything now," Joanne DeSoto said. "Oh, Captain Stanley…"

"Hank."

"Hank, I hate that we're here. None of this should have happened. I should have called you right away. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Don't," Hank said, an edge to the word born probably from fatigue and worry. "Don't say it. There isn't one of us who didn't notice something was going on even before you discussed it with me. As it stands, we don't know whatever was happening with Roy and Johnny had any bearing on the incident at the warehouse. All we know is what Marco and Chet saw. A fire's not a place for clear sight or thinking, sometimes, Joanne. This was no one's fault."

Good speech. Kel wondered how many times Hank had made it, to his men and to himself. He wasn't one for gossip, but Dix had told him Roy and Johnny had had a disagreement recently. As she'd put it, the peanut butter and jelly Johnny and Roy had turned into the peanut butter and … green onions Johnny and Roy. He'd seen it for himself too, after he'd known to look. But what he didn't see was what that had to do with anything. An argument, no matter how major or minor, would never have been enough to somehow cause an unstable building to collapse, or cause an unstable person to attack. There had to be more to it, but at the moment it was the least of Kel's concerns.

After a long pause, someone whose voice Kel found familiar but couldn't place said, "I'll go get some sandwiches from the cafeteria. Maybe you'll be hungry later."

"Thanks, Mike, you're sweet," Joanne said. "I know you're right. I should eat. Roy would … if he could, Roy would tell me to take care of myself, wouldn't he?"

"He's going to be fine," Hank said.

Kel took a step toward the waiting room just as a young man exited. He recognized him as a fireman out of Station 51. Now he had a name to go with a face he had seen several times over the past year or so, none of them good. Mike took one look at him and spun back into the room. Kel followed, making sure his face was neutral. Unfortunately, along with being viewed as a hardnose, he also knew his neutral face came off as a frown. The reactions to his entrance brought that home. Also unfortunate was the fact that he _felt_ like frowning. There were only Joanne, Hank and Mike. A part of him was grateful for the small group.

"Doctor Brackett," Joanne said as she stood. She took a step. "How is he?"

It was best not to pussyfoot around with this kind of news, which he'd never considered doing. They knew something was up already. Roy had not yet been coherent during his few periods of consciousness. Joanne certainly knew what it had been like for the past two days, barely leaving the hospital if she could help it. Kel wasn't a proponent of giving false hope, but years under Dixie's tutelage had made him realize if he wasn't careful he also could be blunter than most people could handle. Even on a case in which he had a personal stake.

"Why don't you sit?"

Joanne's face, already pale, lost another shade so fast, Kel moved quickly to take her by the elbow. Hank did the same on the other side, and together they steered her into a seated position, while he himself perched on the edge of the uncomfortable sofa.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," Kel said. "Roy's hanging in there, but I won't lie to you. He's not doing as well as I'd hoped against the infection."

Dust and debris from a building collapse were huge threats in an open wound, let alone the wound being inflicted by something that could have carried its own host of bacteria. The blood loss Roy had suffered had been dire, but they'd managed to save him from that. No, Kel had known an hour in that infection was going to be Roy's biggest hurdle in recovering. Or surviving. Sometimes he hated being right.

"What does that mean, Doc?" Hank asked. "As far as his prognosis goes?"

"For the moment the infection's contained to the bloodstream." That wasn't good news, of course, not by any definition. "I think it's only a matter of time before it involves bone. If his femur hadn't been nicked, we'd probably be having a very different conversation. But it was, and he's weak from the blood loss yet. He's in a very vulnerable position right now."

"If the infection spreads to bone, what can be done to fight it?" Joanne asked.

He pursed his lips and looked at the three members of his audience in turn. They all looked equal parts hopeful and despairing. They looked almost exactly how he felt. The difference was his scale tilted toward despairing.

"We'll try a different cocktail of medication, increase the dosages. A big factor, maybe the biggest, will be if Roy's own body can fight the infection off."

"Then he'll be okay." Joanne straightened her shoulders and managed a small smile. "He'll fight it."

Kel wanted nothing more than to have that kind of faith. But he'd just left Roy DeSoto, someone he _would_ categorize as one of the strongest people he knew, looking depleted and beyond ill. Faith was for civilians, medicine for doctors. Medicine was telling him to prepare for the worst.

"What if … " Mike started to say, but stopped with a quick glance at Joanne. He took a deep breath. "But what if he can't fight hard enough, what then?"

"Mike," Hank said, warning.

"It's a fair question." Kel stared at the floor for a moment, not sure how to say it. There was only one way. "If we can't stave off the infection, we're looking at organ shutdown as his body has to make maximum effort to fight. If it hits bone and he's already fighting so hard, he could lose the leg. Maybe worse."

Everyone knew what _maybe worse_ meant. Joanne seemed to shrink into herself, shoulders hunching. Hank and Mike sat in silence, their faces broadcasting their horror. The only sound in the room was Joanne's hitched breathing. Kel looked at her, saw she was willing the tears away. In some ways, he'd feel better if she let it out. In more ways, he'd feel better if he could believe what he'd outlined wasn't exactly what was going to happen.

"Can I go sit with him?"

"We're moving him to isolation to keep him in as sterile environment as possible. You can visit, but with his weakened system, we're going to have everyone gown up and limit your stays to fifteen minutes a go."

Joanne appeared ready to protest, so Kel raised a hand.

"I heard what you said earlier. Roy would be right – you do have to keep yourself healthy as well. He's going to need your support for quite some time."

He walked into the right thing to say. Joanne straightened her shoulders. Kel was very aware he hadn't actually said Roy would pull through, but the phrasing made it seem that way. He was reminded that there was a fine line between truth and fiction, faith and science.

"It's going to take some time to get him situated. Just about the amount of time it'd take to eat a sandwich or a salad," Kel said.

"Okay, Doctor Brackett," Joanne said, with another smile, this one far more watery than before. "I should … I need to call and check on the kids too."

The conversation had gone about as well as he could have hoped. Intentional or not, it had ended on a positive note. Now if he could only get Roy to cooperate and prove his gut wrong. Kel stood and moved to the door. His work wasn't done, up here or back in emergency. He had to make sure Roy's move went smoothly, and had his own kid to check on, in a manner of speaking. He felt a touch to his shoulder.

"Doc," Hank said quietly, "Can you tell me how John's doing?"

Ah, beaten to the punch. The problem was, John Gage was giving him no small amount of trouble himself, and with him the news was less concrete. Kel had a niggling thought there was something he was missing, but he couldn't figure out what. John Gage was making him feel like a poor excuse of a physician.

"Not much change, I'm afraid." No change that was good, or that he was prepared to go into quite yet. "I was on my way to check on him now."

"I'd like to come with you, if you don't mind," Hank said.

"Not at all."

He waited while Hank returned to Joanne's side, said a few words to her and Mike before rejoining him. They began walking. Kel took a slight lead. Neither of them spoke, because sometimes words were inadequate. Kel's mind replayed the last few days, reviewed Johnny's situation in his head for the umpteenth time.

From what Marco Lopez and Chet Kelly reported, Roy had put himself between the attacker and Johnny. The end result was that Roy took the knife, but in the process knocked John into a wall. Unfortunately, saving Johnny might come at Roy's ultimate expense. Not to mention Johnny wasn't wholly out of the woods yet himself, with a hairline skull fracture and some swelling. Kel didn't know if the injury had been sustained from Roy's shove, or later when the walls came down. At any rate, they had to keep an eye on him for bleeding, and the fact Johnny hadn't woken at all for the last two days was very troubling. He shook himself out of those thoughts. It was one thing to see the medical side of things, and another to give up before it was time.

"I have to tell you, Doc, this has been really rough," Hank said, suddenly. "On all of us."

Kel had no problem understanding the strain. The chances of the same two people being attacked by someone suffering a mental illness had to be astronomical. He could hardly believe it had happened, yet he had two injured paramedics, one comatose civilian and another in the psych ward as evidence. It was too similar.

"We're a bit shaken here as well."

He knew Dix had already set up a session and was going for more with Doctor Karen Carruthers, one of Rampart's best psychiatrists. Kel would ask Dix to approach Hank with the idea that his men – all of them – might consider a similar arrangement. He thought the suggestion would be better received from her.

As they neared Johnny's room on the sixth floor, Kel saw Colleen Greene, the charge nurse, exit with a slightly frazzled look on her face. Then she saw him and smiled, relief evident.

"Oh, Doctor Brackett, I was just going to have you and Doctor Early paged," she said.

"What is it, Colleen?"

"Mr. Gage's BP, heart rate and respirations are all rising again. He's becoming agitated this time."

He swore under his breath and strode into Johnny's room. Johnny had had several of these bouts, all of them in the last six or seven hours. During the first one, Kel thought they were indications of returning consciousness, but that hadn't happened. It continued to not happen. He needed another ABG and possibly another CT scan, barked out orders to Colleen.

"He's dreaming," Hank said.

Kel started. He'd forgotten that Hank was there. "What? Dreaming?"

"Doc, I spend a lot of time in close quarters with five other men. I know them awake and I know them asleep. John's having a dream, and not a nice one."

Kel looked at the machines hooked up to Johnny, then he looked at Johnny himself. He'd missed it, somehow, beneath the bruises and scrapes and his own worry. Now that it had been pointed out, it was obvious. He rubbed a hand through his hair. He was exhausted, and perhaps too embroiled in finding a physiological reason for everything to know a dream if it came to life and bit him on the butt. What was that he'd said earlier about keeping emotion separated from the job?

"Dreaming," Kel said.

"Yep, dreaming." Hank scratched his head. He seemed nonchalant, but at the same time was so intent on Johnny that he tipped forward slightly. "That's a good sign, right?"

"It could be. If he's dreaming, we should be able to wake him up. So far, we get his vitals stabilized and then ..." Kel stopped.

They'd been going about everything wrong, on the presumption something was wrong. Stabilizing John meant sedation. It was a first year resident mistake, though until now there'd been no eye movement or outward physical sign. Kel leaned close, pulled out his penlight and lifted Johnny's left eyelid. He shone the light in Johnny's eye.

"Johnny, can you hear me?"

John's pupil constricted and he made a weak attempt to move his head. That was the most encouraging thing Kel had seen so far. He glanced at Hank, who'd edged closer to the bed, then pressed his hand on Johnny's chest.

 _That_ got a much bigger reaction, as Johnny's arms swung up and he moaned.

"No, stuuuh," Johnny gasped and his eyes flew open.

For two days, Johnny had been still as marble. Now, he was a mass of kinetic energy. Fortunately, those two days of immobility had left Johnny weak, and therefore so were his kicks and punches. Kel got him under control easily, though he nodded his thanks to Hank for grabbing Johnny's feet. Johnny's heart rate bounded.

"Johnny, calm down. Calm down. You're okay."

Muscle by muscle, Johnny did calm down. His breathing remained a shallow and rapid. All that thrashing around probably hadn't done much good to the skull fracture. Kel tracked the room and found his nurse.

"Colleen, I'm still going to want that ABG and CT. Can you get a draw while we've got him under control here?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Good, then when you're done with the draw, go ahead and page Doctor Early, will you?"

The nurse nodded and got to work, while Kel spoke quietly to Johnny to prevent another fit. It only took a few seconds for Colleen to get the blood, and by then Kel relaxed his grip slightly and put more space between him and Johnny. He was a bit surprised to see Johnny staring at him. He had to ask the questions he knew Johnny hated.

"Johnny, do you know where you are?"

"Rampart," Johnny said, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Uh."

"Can you tell me what you think happened?"

"Uh." Johnny licked his lips and his eyes wandered ever so slightly, until he closed them and took a deep breath. "Cat. She, the girl … Cat came back."

Kel scowled. Not the answer he had expected.

Johnny opened his eyes, saw Kel's expression and started to become agitated again. Then he finally registered Hank's presence. "Cap?"

"John."

Johnny pulled a hand free, pressed it against his chest, right where the impalement had occurred. He seemed surprised there were no bandages.

Kel watched Johnny's face as it all hit him. It was like going to a horror movie and watching someone else's reactions instead of the film itself, seeing Johnny's expression transform quickly from confusion to dread to fear to alarm. The monitors began to reveal how his physical state paralleled the emotional.

"Roy," Johnny said, barely a breath of sound. "He … again. Oh god, what did he do?"


	8. Hank Stanley, Again

Hank shifted on his chair, feeling a bit like he was the defendant in a tribunal. He wasn't on trial, and neither were any of his men. That had been made clear from the get-go. Sometimes it was difficult for him to let go of his paranoia, and sitting before a panel of his colleagues and superiors had never been something he could get accustomed to. It wasn't something he _wanted_ to get used to. He was grateful, though, that the review of the incident had been pushed back until it was known for certain his men were going to be okay. Okay in relative terms, anyway. If nearly losing a leg ever qualified as okay to him, then he was going to have to retire for being too emotionally detached. As it was, he was a tad concerned he was going to have to retire for the opposite reason.

The review was a formality to wrap up the arson case at the level that involved the Department, so the police could concentrate on it along with the attempted murder charges. It had been deemed no small coincidence that the warehouse fires ceased after the two civilians trapped with John and Roy were hospitalized and detained. Hank knew one of them was still lingering in a coma, and the other was in the psych ward at Rampart for now. From what he understood, the case against the men was strong, though they'd plead insanity for at least one of them. Hank did not feel one bit of remorse about hoping they were prosecuted to the full extent of the law, if both survived. One of them had almost killed Roy, and the other was guilty by association as far as he was concerned.

"We're done here, Hank," the Chief Brian Hardwick said. "We appreciate you coming in today. Thank your men again as well. I don't think we'll need Firemen DeSoto and Gage to come in personally, but when they're up to it we'll need the paperwork."

"To be honest, Chief, I'm not sure either of them will be able to add much. From what Gage has told me, he was unconscious most of the time and from when he wasn't he doesn't remember much. And DeSoto … well …."

Roy might be on the survivor list, but that didn't mean he was anywhere near all right. It was only today that he was being moved to a regular room and could have unrestricted visitation times. Truth be told, Hank's mind had been on that more than the questions being tossed at him for the better part of an hour. A captain was like a parent in some respects; he wanted to see to his men, make sure they were okay to _his_ satisfaction.

"We've taken that into consideration. You know this is standard procedure when injuries of this magnitude are sustained in the line of duty," Hardwick said, as if sensing Hank's preoccupation and irritation. "The police will need to speak with DeSoto in person, of course."

"Of course," Hank said. They'd already been in to see John a couple times, as if persistence would make his memory work better. The detective on the case seemed to think unconsciousness wasn't prohibitive to memory. Each visit had left John frustrated, worried and exhausted. "We all want to make sure these guys don't hurt anyone else."

Each member of the review panel nodded in silent agreement and began gathering the materials in front of them. Hank stood when they stood, shook hands as they filed from the room. He followed them out to the parking lot and climbed in his car. He exhaled loudly. He was glad it was over. It was the first of many steps he and his men would have to take before everything was said and done and they were all fit for the job again. The first step was usually the hardest, though in this case he wasn't sure that would prove true.

But he was not interested in making the same mistakes all over. Logically, he knew whatever had been happening with and between John and Roy before had nothing to do with the attack, or fire and building collapse. Illogically, everything was bound together tightly in his mind and memory. Mike, Marco and Chet had all come to him, after, with their own worries and suspicions. None of them could allow hesitation to bring up concerns to happen again, with any of them. That was something not up to the Department, but which fell on his shoulders.

Hank was not taking anyone back on his team who was not ready for it. No, sir.

That meant, he admitted, Dixie McCall's recommendation for therapy should be implemented sooner rather than later. Hank knew the higher-ups would have ordered counseling, if he hadn't used his captain's discretion when it came to the personnel matters of late. He also knew that if he were going to expect his men to go to a shrink, then he'd better be willing to do it himself. Nothing had happened _to_ him, yet he sometimes woke up in the middle of the night fresh off images of John dying or Roy bleeding out. And that was only when his brain didn't extrapolate and insert the rest of his men in perilous situations as well.

He could do the job. They could all do the job. Hank simply wanted to make sure they did it to the best of their abilities, now and in the future. He shook his head. First things first. He started the car and navigated onto the street. He figured Rampart had gotten Roy all settled by now, and he'd stop there for a quick visit before heading home. Joanne would be there, but he was sure she wouldn't mind.

The last time Hank had seen Roy, he'd still looked too pale and feverish. Despite Doctor Brackett's (and Doctor Simmons', who'd operated on Roy's leg) assurances, his worry wouldn't dissipate until he could put words with images. He also wanted to talk with John, try to wheedle out the full story of what he'd seen at his bedside days ago, the outright panic and horror. At this point, John Gage had been uncharacteristically reticent about everything but the facts. This only reaffirmed to Hank that all of his men talk to _someone_. He didn't care that much if it wasn't him.

Rampart's parking lot was very full, as usual. He didn't mind parking at the far end of the lot and walking. Hank did not like hospitals. He hated almost everything about them, and he'd spent too much time in this one in particular over the past six months. The few minutes it took to walk the distance gave him time to breathe past his own anxieties and dread that some doctor somewhere was going to remind him to have a physical or poke him with a needle.

Being a fire captain didn't mean a man had to be rational one hundred percent of the time.

He walked toward the emergency department entrance, more out of familiarity than anything. He could navigate anywhere in the city, but somehow, directly or indirectly related to his reluctance to enter them, the insides of the hospital were confusing to him unless he started at a known point. He was surprised to see multiple black and whites in front of the doors, lights flashing. He don't know how he didn't see that upon entering the parking lot. He frowned. Policemen roamed the area. All of them looked ready for action, but aimless at the same time.

"Nobody in, nobody out, sir," a young officer said, catching Hank by the arm.

"What's going on? Captain Hank Stanley, LA County Fire Department," Hank said. He'd found announcing his rank helped open doors, a power he didn't use often. When his men were in a building swarmed with armed police officers, he felt justified. "Maybe I can lend some help."

"No help needed, Captain," the officer, Johnston by his name badge, said, then added _sotto voce_ , "Mental patient escaped. Hospital's been on lockdown for two hours. He didn't get out, so he's in there somewhere. Bound to find him soon."

Lord, this was in no way helping his aversion to hospitals. Hank eyed the building as if it were a live creature about to bite him. Bad things happened in there. He thought about forgoing the visit with Roy and John, just as quickly decided against that. He was here and his mind wouldn't be set to peace until he saw them. Plus, plain old human curiosity got the better of him. He joined the edges of the crowd that had gathered. At the fourth notepad and camera sighting, he skirted away from that mob because he didn't want to be mistaken for one of them. Journalists were vultures.

He leaned on a police squad and waited. He didn't know how long he was there before he saw Doctor Brackett leave the building, with a frown on his face and five cops surrounding him. That frown could mean anything. Hank didn't know Brackett well, but he knew the frown was usual for any number of situations. He didn't think he'd ever seen the man not frowning.

"Doctor Brackett," Hank called, pushing himself away from the car.

Brackett shot a nasty look at the journalists as he walked by them to reach Hank's side. "Captain Stanley. Hank. You know what's going on?"

Hank nodded.

"Well, I don't want you to worry. I asked that guards be put at Roy's door. Johnny happened to be in there with him when this all started, so that made it easy. I thought it best that they weren't told why we're on lockdown. So far, there hasn't been any sign of danger."

And then it sank in, who the escaped mental patient was. Hank sagged onto the hood of the car, legs suddenly weak. What were the chances of this? It was a nightmare. It would _be_ a nightmare for him tonight. He glanced at Brackett, who studied him with his frown still in place. Now Hank saw it was one of concern. He waved a hand in the air to signal he needed a moment to absorb the information and was about to ask how something like this could happen when a series of loud shouts came from the emergency entrance. Startled, he watched as their attempted murderer was dragged out of the building, screaming his lungs out.

On cue, cameras began clicking and flashbulbs going off so fast they had a strobe effect. It was bedlam, but all Hank could think was, _thank god, thank god it's over now_. He sat there, stunned, while the man was driven away. The crowd faded quickly, some of them before the police had left the parking lot. Following the story to the police station, no doubt. Lousy vultures.

When all was said and done, Hank had never been so glad for an anticlimactic ending in his entire life. In his line of work, that was saying something. Would that every fire end anticlimactically, he wouldn't be at a hospital visiting injured men right now. He stared after the exiting parade of vehicles, maybe expecting another catastrophe before the car holding the criminal got out of eyesight. But he didn't want to think about the man who'd tried to kill Roy anymore today. He didn't even want to think about him until the hearing.

"Hank," Brackett said. "Hey, are you hearing me?"

Hank blinked, surprised to find Brackett gripping and shaking his left shoulder. It occurred to him only then that time was passing far more slowly in reality than what it was for him. To him, it had been a blink of an eye, but he'd probably been sitting there staring at nothing for ten or fifteen minutes. Whoops.

"Sorry, Doc. Were you saying something?" Hank asked.

"I said they found the guy with his comatose buddy, trying to wake him up." Brackett eyeballed him. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine. This wasn't what I was expecting to walk into." That was putting it mildly. Nobody ever expected to walk into a manhunt. "I needed a minute to take it in."

"Tell me about it," Brackett said. "Listen, I have to try to get things back to normal in there. Why don't you go ahead and see to your men? We put Roy in a private room down the hall from Johnny. Roy's in 325."

"Thanks," Hank said as Brackett headed for the door. He took a few quick steps to catch up. "Doc, tell me – how is Roy, really?"

Brackett pursed his lips for a second, something akin to irritation flashing in his eyes. Then he gave Hank a fast smile. "The move was rough on him, but he's settled in pretty well all things considered. I guarantee you he is and looks much better than the last time you were in to see him, and much better than I thought he'd be at this point."

"Okay. Okay, good."

Hank nodded his thanks, and the men parted ways at the admitting desk. The elevator looked busy. He could always use the exercise, so he ducked into the stairwell. He took the stairs two at a time and was probably to the third floor before the elevator could have gotten him there anyway. The first thing he saw was a directional sign indicating he should turn left for rooms 301 through 340. The corridor was busy with nurses, orderlies and doctors who all looked frazzled and recovering lost time from the lockdown. He stayed out of the way the best he could, avoided several collisions by a hair. Some of the people he nearly hit had syringes in their hands. He shuddered and kept going.

As he entered the 320s, Hank quickened his pace. His wife had been telling him for days to stop fretting so much, but it simply wasn't that easy for him. She knew that, of course. One of the things he loved most about Elle was her patience with him, and the understanding that he had two sets of kids to worry about. Sometimes he didn't know which was worse – the thought of his daughters out with teenaged boys who all had one track minds or the thought of one of his team trapped in a building collapse, bleeding out. In a strange way, it was six of one, half dozen of the other.

Five steps from the open door of 325, Hank heard Roy's voice. It still sounded shaky to his hypersensitive perspective. Roy did sound better, though. A wave of relief washed through him. He leaned against the wall for a second. He didn't want to interrupt anything. It might be Johnny or Joanne or both in there, or maybe it was a nurse doing a check. The last thing Hank needed to see was the leg wound. The one time he had, it had been enough to make his vision gray out on the edges. Infection could do terrible things.

"So, what, you want me to just not do anything if I see you're in trouble? Leave you to die?" Roy said, rash anger in every word.

"That is not what I said, Roy." Johnny, on the other hand, sounded rational and calm. Ad tired, like he'd been talking for hours. Probably had. "That has never _been_ what I've said. Hell, I knew even before this that you'd risk your own life to save mine. And I'd do the same, in a heartbeat."

Hank shifted. He should go. He couldn't seem to move.

"That's all I did. Why do you kee – "

"Because!" A slap, and a rattle of metal on plastic. Something hit the floor, bounced a few times and rolled. "Damn it, because this was different, and you know it. If you would just listen to what I'm saying, you'd know it was different. Ever since I got back to work, you've been jumping every time anything has come near me, including your own little girl. It's not a normal reaction. I can't work like that, always on edge. You can't keep on like that, either. Jeez, Roy, how many times do I have to say it before you'll hear me? You almost lost your leg. You almost died."

Silence fell. Even from outside the room, Hank could feel the tension. He couldn't recall a time he'd ever heard John Gage yell, honestly shout in anger, at Roy DeSoto. Stoker apparently had, not too long before all it all went to hell in a handbasket. He couldn't go in now, but he still couldn't leave.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Roy said, the ire gone from his voice. He sounded … small. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"I think you just started doing something."

"Yeah?"

"Well, this is the only time you haven't tried to punch me when I brought it up." Plastic creaked and squeaked, Johnny shifting on a hospital-regulated chair. "My broken skull appreciates that too."

"Johnny, I …"

"Roy, don't. You _saved my life_. If you hadn'tta pushed me, I'd be flatter than a pancake and six feet under right now or, worse, a vegetable like that kid we were trying to pull out. I … froze. Couldn't move. Like I said, this was _different_ ," Johnny sounded like he was smiling, that barely there thing that wasn't happy so much as troubled. He took a deep breath. "I knew it was a guy, but it looked like Cat Drewes to me. It was my nightmares come true, and I kind of thought it _was_ a dream. I've been having lots of them. Started getting hard to tell if I was asleep or awake."

Hank had had a pretty good idea what was going on with his paramedics. He'd spent days putting the puzzle together. The confirmation started to feel like an invasion of Roy and John's privacy more than anything. He pushed himself off the wall, stood there with fingertips brushing it.

"Johnny…" Roy said, sounding regretful.

Hank could practically see John waving his hand as he cut Roy off.

"Besides, thanks to the knock on my head, I got my first solid sleep in months. I owe you for that; it was getting bad," Johnny said lightly. He paused, then, "Uh, Doctor Carruthers thinks she can help with that some more."

"Doctor Carruthers?" Roy asked. "You're talking to the shrink? Willingly?"

"Yup."

"Oh." There was a beat. "Well, I always knew you were a nut."

"Hey, now!"

With that exchange of insults-slash-affection, something in the air changed. Eased. Hank had hope, real hope, things would be all right this time, and not just physically. He took a few steps back, tried to look like he hadn't been standing there for a good long while and approached the door. He rapped on the frame as he poked his head in. Both of his men turned to look at him.

"Roy, John," he said, "Thought I'd come see how you fellas were doing."

"Oh, hi, Cap, c'mon in," they both said in unison, then did a double take.

Hank smiled.


End file.
